


fair is foul, and foul is fair

by eg1701



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Assassins & Hitmen, Blood and Violence, Codependency, Death Threats, M/M, Murder, Physical Abuse, Revenge, Threats of Violence, Two timelines, Unhealthy Relationships, Vomiting, but uhhh not a dark and violent ending?, generally dark and violent themes, not tom and greg tho, that's them a little
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-18 10:55:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28865892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eg1701/pseuds/eg1701
Summary: Tom finds several things out about Greg's new relationship.
Relationships: Greg Hirsch/Tom Wambsgans
Comments: 23
Kudos: 32





	fair is foul, and foul is fair

**Author's Note:**

> i feel like we as a people discuss tom needed to go a little feral and you know what? here you go. maybe it's just me. maybe not. regardless here's a little murder/revenge fic
> 
> this is much darker than the shit i usually write so like, please be aware of that! i just really needed this out of my brain
> 
> title from macbeth!

**_Now_ **

The clock above the sink ticks. 

The refrigerator hums. The rain beats against the window, hard and past. Like bullets against the thick glass.

It’s dark in the kitchen, but Tom can see from the dim yellow light above the stove. He can see the shiny countertops and the polished floors.

Well. _Mostly_ polished. There’s a growing rust colored stain spreading across the floor. One that, if he doesn’t act soon, will likely stain. He’s not sure how fast blood can stain on different surfaces. But he knows time is short. He’d planned this all out, down practically to the minute, and he can’t waste time standing here gawking at the blood pooling around the body. He takes a careful step, ensuring he doesn’t track blood along. He has enough to clean without leaving blood footsteps. 

Somewhere outside, a siren wails, and he freezes, staring at the window like a deep caught in the headlights, even though this apartment is on the twenty seventh floor, and he will not be able to see anything. He imagines the police breaking down the door, and seeing him standing there, red handed, so to speak. He listens hard, but the siren seems to fade in the opposite direction. It’s not for him, whatever it was.

It was almost funny, in a way. He has an MBA and dresses exclusively in designer clothes. At one point he worked at one of the largest multimedia conglomerates in the world. He’s been to the RECNY ball, to corporate retreats, on yachts and private jets.

He should have been committing _more_ white collar crime. Embezzled something. Mislead shareholders. Fraud. If Tom was going to commit another felony, it should have been more in line with him as a person. But here he is, blood on his hands-- both literally and figuratively, and he doesn’t even find it that strange anymore.

Tom thinks, as he gently turns on the kitchen sink, he’d have done this to anybody that hurt someone he loved. If he thought someone had hurt Shiv, or touched her. If his mother was in trouble. Hell, he’d once threatened Nate, at a wedding that seemed nothing more than a hazy dream, to pay men to break his legs if he came near Shiv again. Maybe Tom’s become more down to earth since the divorce. He doesn’t need men to do his dirty work for him anymore.

A light chuckle bubbles up. He doesn’t press it down. The blood goes down the sink, off the knife, off his hands. It’s cold as ice this time of year, but his own blood is rushing, his own adrenaline pumping, and he hardly notices it.

****

**_Then_ **

Tom had started sleeping much lighter since the divorced. He didn’t know why, exactly, only that the fire alarm outside, a door slamming down the hall, his own phone was now enough to wake him up. He thought stupidly, the other day, over cold leftovers, that he should ask Shiv what had changed to make him _bad_ at sleeping, but his lawyers had suggested that no contact, at least until the aftermath of the divorce settled a bit, was the best solution.

The apartment he’d rented was in no way small or cheap. It was a pricy building, in a pricy neighborhood, but Tom had mostly survived on cheap beer-- and given the cans and bottles littering his kitchen, that was obvious-- and expensive take out. He liked to cook, but everything seemed to involve so much energy.

It took him several moments to figure out what had woken him up. A sliver of moonlight danced across the floor of the bedroom-- a bedroom that was distinctly inhabited by one person. Shiv’s heels wouldn’t be in the closer. Her perfumes would not be on the dresser, and she would not be on the other side of the bed if he were to role over.

His phone continued to ring, and he groaned, sitting up enough to flip on the light. He groped for his phone, squinted at the name, and rolled his eyes. 

“This had better be life or fucking death Gregory, do you know what time it is?” 

“Uh, hey man,” Greg said softly. 

Tom pinched the bridge of his nose. He had to wake up a bit, at least enough to have this conversation. 

“Why are you calling me at,” Tom glanced at the clock on the nightstand, “Two fucking thirty in the morning. Don’t you have to work in the morning.”

“Yeah,” Greg said, and even though they didn’t talk too much anymore, not since the divorce, since their fight, since Kendall’s press conference, Tom could tell something was off in Greg’s tone, even if he didn’t know what it was, “I didn’t like, I didn’t know who else to call man.”

“Where are you?” Tom asked, hearing his mother’s voice telling him that he better not leave his friend alone when he was clearly in trouble, and didn’t she raise him to be better than that? “Are you hurt or something?”

“I’m,” Greg paused, “Gimme a second to find a street sign.”

“You’re not a night person Greg. What are you doing out?”

“I’m midtown. 34th.”

“Where’s the nearest all night place?” Tom asked. He pushed the covers off and looked around for the jeans he’d kicked off earlier, “There’s got to be a shitty diner or something.”

“Uh yeah. I see one across the street.”

“Go in. Order me some decent fucking coffee. Drop me your location. I’ll be there soon.”

“Sure man.”

***

**_Now_ **

It’s really a nice apartment. Probably more expensive than Tom’s but that’s to be expected. These sorts of monsters always have nice places. He shouldn’t be paying so much attention to his surroundings, but he has work to do, and Tom’s always been one to notice the finer things in life. 

He wasn’t an idiot. Funnily enough, the gloves were a gift from Kendall several Christmases ago. It was the first time any of Shiv’s family had ever gifted him anything. Tom isn’t sure why, exactly, but it seems fitting. They’re one of the only things he’s really kept from that time in life, mostly because he wants to forget. But he thinks this is something that he might have done as a Roy.

A pseudo-Roy. Cleaning up dirty work. At least this time it’s his own mess and not someone else’s. 

Actually, this was not the original plan. But the knife had just _been_ there and Tom had been so angry. He could make it work though. Henry Wambsgans was a true crime aficionado, and Tom thinks that maybe the hours of documentaries and radio programs his father detailed to him growing up might come in handy.

Rich people are always involved in things they shouldn’t be and Tom thinks he’s going to use it to his advantage. Maybe some of the lessons he had learned being married to Shiv, working at ATN were still usable.

It was Greg though, who taught him how to hack a computer. And that’s who he’s thankful for now.

***

**_Then_ **

The diner _is_ shitty. A woman glanced up from behind the counter when he steps in out of the cold, and holds up a menu.

“I’m meeting someone,” he said, glancing around for Greg, who he didn’t see. Which is odd, given Greg’s height, “Tall guy? Taller than me. Kind of gangly?”

She waved vaguely to her left, “Ordered a coffee. He’s over there somewhere.”

He thanked her, but she didn't catch the sarcasm in his tone, because she was back to her phone before the word was even out of his mouth. The diner was mostly empty this late, though a group of rowdy fucking club goers were half drunk at a booth, and a few people sat alone. He poked around until he spotted Greg, sunk low at a booth. 

“There you are,” Tom said, “You look terrible. What the fuck happened to you?”

Greg looked up at him. It was clear he’d already dealt with his bloody nose, but the black eye was forming quickly, and he shifted in his seat. He had already dumped the ice out of whatever he had ordered, and wrapped it in a napkin, which was leaking water on the table.

“Greg?” he slid into the booth across from him, “Did you get- what happened? Who gave you that fucking shiner?”

Greg frowned, “Nobody.”

“Oh so you call me in the middle of the fucking night, I come all the way out here to see you, you look like shit and _nobody_ did it? What the fuck Greg.”

Greg shrugged. A waitress came over with a pot of coffee. Tom noticed Greg had, in fact, ordered him a cup, so he shook his head at her refill offer.

“Can I get you some more ice for that sweetheart?” she asked. She was probably the same age as Greg’s mother must be, though Tom had never met Marianne Hirsch. Maybe she had a son Greg’s age. Arlene, her name tag said. She eyed Tom suspiciously, like he was the one that did it. 

“That’d be, like, really nice,” Greg said, “Thanks.”

She frowned at Tom, who took a sip of his coffee, like that might help ease her suspicions somehow. He didn’t want her to think him too aggressive, too mean. The last thing he fucking wanted was for her to kick him out or call the cops. 

“It wasn’t him,” Greg said, smiling. Tom thought Greg could get anything he wanted with that goofy smile, “He’s the friend I called.”

“I’ll get you some more ice,” she said, “You want anything to eat? Either of you?”

“No, thank you,” Tom said. He wanted to tell her to fuck off, couldn’t she see he was trying to figure something out, but she’d been kind to Greg before he got here, and he owed Greg kindness back to her.

She walked off and Tom returned his attention to Greg.

“I’m going to ask you something.”

Greg nodded.

“Was this that fucker you’ve been seeing? The one that works two floors below us when we were at ATN?”

***

**_Now_ **

Another thing about rich people, Tom thinks, is that they never fucking think anything will ever touch them. They commit crimes and hurt people and steal money and never think it’s going to fucking matter. That’s what he had discovered on the man who now lies on the ground and stares at the ceiling but sees nothing. They move money to offshore accounts, they lie to their clients, and they hardly seem to think it matters.

They also, Tom smiles, as he finds what he’s looking for, sometimes _run out_ of money, and don’t know how to get it back so they get desperate. They ask for money from people they shouldn't. They get involved in backdoor business trades and they don’t think anybody will ever find out.

Then again. Most people don’t expect to be stabbed in their own kitchen. Life’s funny.

Everything’s going as it should. But after hours of planning, why shouldn't it? Greg had been more than happy to let slip enough information to give Tom something to go on.

He feels a pang of guilt, knowing Greg is alone at the apartment, but he thinks that it’s more than likely Greg will sleep through it. He sleeps so deep-- Tom is jealous of it-- and if Tom can get home before five or so, Greg doesn’t need to know. Not until the news breaks, and Tom wonders if he’ll somehow be found out. Let him have a good night’s sleep. It could be the last one for a while, all things considered. 

But it doesn’t stop him from feeling guilty. Not at what he’s done, but because Greg doesn’t know.

***

**_Then_ **

Greg spoke quietly and quickly. Tom held his coffee cup in his own hands, just to keep them busy. It was cheap, whatever it was made of, and the hotness almost burned his hands, but he kept his grip tight. 

“What the fuck Greg,” Tom said when he’d finished, which he knew was probably less than helpful, “What the _fuck._ ”

“I don’t know,” Greg frowned, “I didn’t, like, think he’d ever do something like this. He was so nice when we first got together.”

“Is this the first time?” Tom asked. Greg’s eye would be black by the morning, he thought, and for the first time he noticed a little dried blood on Greg’s collar. Goddamn, he must have gotten smacked.

“Mostly.”

“What does _mostly_ mean? It’s either yes or no?”

“Sometimes, like, he just grabs my wrist too hard you know? Like I don’t think he _means_ to leave bruises. But like, this is the first time,” Greg waved vaguely in front of his face, indicating the injuries, “I don’t know. He just like, freaked out on me. I didn’t know where to go and I didn’t want to show up at your place or whatever. So I called you.”

Tom swallowed, “You can stay with me.”

“I don’t mean to impose or whatever.”

“You’re not imposing. You called me because you needed some help. I’m not heartless. I bet the Roys all talk about how heartless I am. They probably hate me.”

Tom wasn’t sure how he’d managed to make the conversation about him, but he had, and he quickly clamped his mouth shut.

“I’ve never thought you were heartless Tom,” Greg said, reaching out to put a hand on Tom’s arm, “I think, well, I’ve always liked you. I mean, you’re, like, most assuredly an asshole. But I like you.”

“I sure hope so. You and I used to fuck.”

“Dude,” Greg glanced around, “That waitress definitely has, like, a pathological need to mother me. Don’t say that shit around her.”

Tom chuckled, “Greg fucking Hirsch. Darling of graveyard shift waitresses.”

***

**_Now_ **

It was easy enough to figure out what kind of bad things the late tenant of this apartment had been involved in. Tom’s seen action movies, seen crime movies and mob movies. Maybe it’s weak, maybe it’s too much of a chance, but Tom can’t seem to bring himself to care that much just now. The after effects will be dealt with after his present predicament. 

Tom finishes on the laptop. When-- for he assumes they will-- the police open it up, they will not need to search far for a motive. Their vic will have made an attempt, at least they’ll think it was him, to trash it, but he will not have wiped his computer clean. There are three things to a crime, he remembers his mother telling him, motive, means, and opportunity. 

He hopes-- prays, pleads, begs-- that this is a motive enough. Actually, the deceased had done a lot of the work for him, simply by being rich and thinking he could do as he pleased and mess with who he pleased. Tom hadn’t even had to forge much of it. 

Another one of his mother’s life lessons arises. That sometimes the police think that the simplest solution is the correct one. Sure, she didn’t mean for it to ever apply to him like this, but if he can make it seem as if someone was extra bad, and didn’t do as he was told, then perhaps someone powerful enough in the underworld had him bumped off. 

They need never know what actually happened. 

He shuts the screen. Another check off his list. Actually, he’s almost proud of himself, in a sort of fucked up way. Tom had made a decision not to let anybody do his dirty work for him for this, and Goddamnit if he wasn’t going to keep that up.

He stood up, careful not to let the chair scrape on the floor too loudly and put his hands on his hips.

Now, he buttons up his coat and looks down at the floor, comes the tricky bit.

***

**_Then_ **

Tom paid for the coffee, left the waitress a large tip, and ushered Greg out to the car. 

“Do you have, like, a second bedroom?” Greg asked, “I don’t think I’ve seen your new place.”

“It’s a right fucking bachelor pad,” Tom said, thinking about the crushed cans on the coffee table, and the pile of dirty laundry in the bedroom. To be fair, he hadn’t expected guests, “It’s nice.”

“Where are you working?” Greg asked, ducking into the passenger seat.

“Uptown. Corporate for some hotels.”

“Bet you like that,” Greg muttered, and didn’t say anything else. He propped an elbow up on the door and looked out the window. Tom wanted to say several things, but he thought Greg looked fucking pathetic, and having been kicked when he was down himself, he knew how much it fucking sucked. 

“Yeah it’s fine,” Tom replied, “Don’t get blood in my car. I’ll get you some band-aids or whatever when we get back.”

Neither of them spoke the entire drive. Thankfully, traffic was light this late, and the radio made up for the silence. Greg was an inherently talkative person, and his silence made Tom realize just how upset he must be. He had, well, he had missed Greg’s running commentary, and his dumbass references. Living alone had been alright, sure. It was true that he missed Shiv, even if he didn’t miss their marriage and all that came with it. 

Still silent, Tom took Greg upstairs. 

“It’s kind of a fucking mess in here man,” Greg said, kicking at an empty Amazon box on the floor. Tom had gotten drunk and bought a new shower curtain-- which wasn’t really too bad. The green clashed with the bathroom a bit, but nobody else ever saw it-- and a set of Jane Austen movies, which he had considered returning, but opened on a _different_ night when he was alone, and drunk, and now lived hidden in the back of the entertainment center. 

At the noise, Mondale came barreling in from the bedroom where he’d been asleep.

“Hey buddy,” Greg knelt down so Mondale could shove his nose into Greg’s face, “You running a tight ship around here huh?”

“It’s just Greg, you remember Greg?”

In answering, Mondale knocked Greg onto his ass, and climbed into his lap.

“Guess so,” Greg looked up and smiled, “I’m glad to see you too Mondale.”

“Mondale, let Greg up now, go on,” Tom said.

Mondale looked up at him, but Tom held firm, and eventually Mondale gave Greg another round of licks, and slinked off to the kitchen, probably hoping there was some leftover dinner in his bowl. Tom offered a hand to help Greg off the floor. 

“You come along too,” Tom said firmly, tugging Greg along. He pushed the bathroom door open, and sat Greg down on the closed toilet seat. He dug around for a bit in the medicine cabinet, pulling out the things as he came across them.

In the harsh bathroom light, Tom thought Greg looked even worse. The dark circles under his eyes were deep and Tom wondered when he’d last slept. The black eye was deepening into a purple color, and now he could see the cut on his cheek, hidden a bit by the bruise.

“I’m not a fucking doctor,” Tom said firmly, squeezing rubbing alcohol onto a cotton pad, “So sorry if this stings.”

Greg winced, and sucked in his teeth when the cotton made contact, but didn’t complain. 

“I can’t do much for your black eye, but I think you’ll probably live,” Tom declared, placing a bandage over the freshly cleaned cut, “Is that all?”

Greg nodded, “Yeah. Look, thanks, like, for picking up. I didn’t know what I was going to do if you didn’t.”

“What about Kendall?”

Greg shook his head, “It’s _really_ complicated right now. Dude, you’re lucky to have gotten out before Waystar fucking imploded. I fucking hate it there.”

“Oh,” Tom said, mostly because he didn’t know what else _to_ say, “Well, you did it to yourself.”

Greg looked up at him as if Tom _had_ hit him, and Tom felt a wave of shame at that. Hadn’t he _just_ been thinking about how much it hurt to be kicked when you were already down?

“Greg, I’m sorry,” Tom said softly, “That was mean. I, fuck- I’m sorry.”

“I know,” Greg said, and leaned forward, just enough to rest his head on Tom, “I’m not mad at you.”

***

**_Now_ **

The smell of bleach surpasses the smell of blood now. He knows he can’t leave till the smell dissipates a bit, but he’s already opened a window, which is helping. The scent of the rain is a pleasant one. He thinks he’ll probably leave the window open. Make it look like someone left in a hurry. Explain why things were left behind. What did you take when you fled? 

Perhaps he should have read some more murder mysteries before this.

Tom originally had wanted to leave the body, but a missing persons case was easier. Especially if it looks like a take-the-money-and-run case. Especially when suspiciously large amounts of money had been moved around for a few days before this. 

Actually, Tom is pretty impressed with himself. 

He’ll be more impressed if it works, of course, and the papers report that the body on the floor ran off to South America with funds he’d stolen from not only Waystar, but some off the books sources as well. If the late accountant can be treated as an expatriate of sorts, then Tom will be thoroughly impressed. 

It’s too early to get cocky though. Mistakes can still be made. His pulse pounds in his ears and he thinks that there’s probably enough adrenaline coursing through him to shock a person back to life.

He dunks the sponge back into the water, turning it a sickly pink, and returns to his cleaning. He thinks about MacBeth of all things. He’d taken a theatre class in college, to fill an elective and they’d read Macbeth. He wasn’t a very _good_ actor, and had been assigned background roles of a line or two all semester, but he thinks about the line after the king is dead. 

_Who would have thought the old man to have so much blood in him?_

He hopes not to end the way of Lady MacBeth, washing his hands of things for an eternity. He remembers too, the way she went mad. He is confident though, in himself. She's just a character.

Funny, the way memory works, the things you remember. Lines from a play from a lifetime ago. 

He gets a strong whiff of bleach, and scrunches up his face. That was enough Shakespeare for the night. There was work to be done.

When the floor is spotless, and the bloody water is dumped down the drain. He returns the bucket to its spot, and tucks the sponge away with his things. Leaving it here is risky. A smoking gun. Proof that someone was here. The smell of the rain helped with the metallic blood scent and the overwhelmingly sickening scent of bleach. He’s putting off dealing with the body mostly because he’s nervous somehow this is where he will fuck up. It’s all meticulously planned, but that doesn’t mean there’s not room for error. 

It’s technically not the first crime he’s committed, but there’s no Greg here to make copies and hide them away, no whistleblower to bring it up to the media. He thinks, objectively, he has a better shot of getting away with this one. 

_Jesus Christ_ , he shakes his head as he bleaches the bucket for good measure, what would my mother think?

But actually, despite it all, she thinks that Evelyn Wambsgans trusts her son to do what he thinks is right. And whether or not this is ethical or moral choice is up in the air, but he knows it’s the right choice. He’s known it for weeks now. He wonders if Greg is suspicious, but he thinks probably not. He does love Greg, but sometimes he thinks there’s not much going on in that pretty little head of his. Sure, sometimes he’s smart, but he doesn’t think that Greg would find Tom capable of murder. 

Not with his own hands at least. 

***

**_Then_ **

In the morning, Tom cooked breakfast quietly, while Greg slept on the sofa. He knew Greg was supposed to go into the office, but Tom has already called out sick from his own job-- _must have eaten something yesterday. Food poisoning_ was the excuse he’d given-- because he thought that Greg would probably not want to go into the office today.

The smell of bacon and eggs seemed to wake him up though. Much like a dog, Tom thought. Mondale had already eaten his breakfast and returned to his pestering Greg to get off the soda so he could hop up.

“Good morning sleeping beauty,” Tom called, flipping the egg over. He’d remembered how Greg liked his eggs cooked, and had started cooking it that way before he realized why, “How’s the face this morning?”

Greg looks distinctly rumbled, probably from sleeping on the sofa, and although the bruise looked darker, it didn’t look bigger or worse, “Morning.”

“Sit,” Tom pointed at the kitchen table with his spatula, “I’m making you breakfast.”

Actually he had bacon, but no eggs, and had snuck out to the grocery store instead of going for his morning run. Something about _Greg_ seeing his barren fridge and cabinets was embarrassing, so he’d bought the essentials. 

“I should probably, like, call in sick right?” Greg glanced at his watch, “By the time I made it downtown, I’d already been embarrassingly late. Is it embarrassing to be late? I feel like it is.”

“Just call in sick dipshit,” Tom rolled his eyes. He left the egg to cook and poured Greg a cup of coffee, and topped off his own, “Everything is a fucking _deal_ with you. Kendall’s not going to care.”

“It’s not Kendall I don’t want to see,” Greg muttered, and put his head on his arms on the table with a huff.

“Oh.”

Tom didn’t speak farther. He returned to the stove, and when the eggs were done, slid them onto Greg’s waiting plate. He placed it in front of him at the table and then sat down himself. 

“You’re not eating?” Greg asked.

Tom shook his head and sipped his coffee, “Eat.”

Greg shoveled food into his mouth like it was going to be his last meal. It wasn’t a new habit, otherwise Tom would have probably been more concerned than he already was. Actually, Tom would never admit to it, but it was kind of… cute, the way Greg ate. Like a fucking kid or something. And Tom was already proud whenever Greg finished a plate Tom had made. He had never cooked much for Shiv, sometimes he thought he would get rusty.

“So you’re going to break up with him right?” Tom says. His coffee is just a tad too hot, and it burns the roof of his mouth when he drinks it, “I mean, you’re not a fucking glutton for punishment are you? I’m quite certain you could do better.”

Greg shrugged, “I don’t know.”

“You shouldn’t let people treat you like that.”

Greg looked up at him, and Tom thought there was a hint of malice behind those eyes. Even though he found Greg pretty easy to read most of the time, when he wasn’t scheming at least, that was a look he didn’t like and didn’t quite understand.

“Ever since I came to New York, people have treated me like this Tom. Sometimes you have to think that maybe it’s just, like, my station in life.”

“It doesn't mean that you deserve it,” Tom replied.

“I’m going home,” Greg said suddenly, “It was like, really cool of you to come and get me last night and breakfast was great, but I’m not going to have this conversation with you. I’m going home. Thanks.”

Maybe Tom should have stopped him, but he didn’t. 

***

**_Now_ **

The finishing touches are added to make the apartment look like the apartment of someone who just absconded with a large amount of money to an undisclosed location in order to save himself and his assets. Even though Tom has learned that rich people can get away with murder-- he winces at the thought, but the phrase works-- a large amount of drugs and forged papers placed haphazardly hidden around wouldn’t hurt.

He steps into the bedroom. It’s dark and practically empty. He wishes he didn’t have to do this. He doesn’t like looking at the rumpled sheets or the robe left over the chair. It felt haunted, or cursed or _something_ but it had to be done. 

Tom finishes his planting. He knew that planting fake evidence was the least of his crimes right now, but it somehow felt like the worst part.  
He thinks now what he will tell Greg when the story inevitably breaks. Greg will see through him, because Tom cannot hide anything from him. He hopes that it will be a case of missing person, of another rich man fucking off before he could get into trouble, but Greg will think otherwise. 

_I’ll tell him,_ Tom thinks, _He won’t rat me out. I’ll admit to it and that’ll be that._

But really he doesn't know what will happen. Dragging Greg into this is not an option. Even now, he can remember Greg after Tom’s own senate testimony. _This fucking guy,_ Greg had shouted. It was _Tom’s_ fault. Tom won’t let that happen again. He can’t let it happen again, not after all the promises he’d made.

He sends another silent prayer-- like God is even still listening to him at this point in life-- that Greg is still asleep, and that he will have time to come up with his explanation. 

Tom returns to the kitchen, half expecting the body to be gone. Too many horror movies probably. Vengeful ghosts and hungry zombies. Was Tom condemning himself to a life of hauntings? 

He shrugs. It’s too late for that now.

But the body is still there. It hasn’t moved, it hasn’t shifted. He has to move it, but he is putting it off. According to his watch he still has four minutes before he’s meant to make his way downstairs. Again, it’s all down to the minute. 

Tom closes his eyes. For a moment, he imagines this all going down the shitter. Likely, his parents will never be able to show their faces again. ATN will have a field day. Shiv will relish in his downfall and he will not even blame her. If his ex went to jail for murder, he’d probably feel pretty fucking good about it. 

But what will Greg say?

And when had Greg’s opinion of him become the only one that fucking matters.

Stupidly, he thinks, at least Mondale will have someone to take care of him if Tom’s sent up the river. 

With his eyes closed, he can almost imagine he is not where he is. Can imagine he’s back in bed, where he should be this late at night. That if he throws an arm to the other side, he’ll find Greg sleeping. 

But he opens his eyes, and all that he sees is a body he has to deal with.

***

**_Then_ **

Three days passed. Tom returned to his job. The receptionist asked if he was feeling better, and he assured her whatever it was had passed.

He tried hard not to think about Greg. To do his work and to go home. He has Mondale and an apartment and finally enough food to actually cook. But the image of pathetic fucking Greg with the black eye in the shitty diner light refused to leave his head.

When he and Greg had started hooking up, before the divorce, before the yacht and subsequent press conference, Tom had been nosy as shit about what Greg did and who he was with. Tom’s therapist said he had a habit of taking out the wrong emotions on the wrong people. It was why he’d been so upset when Greg had asked to move to another department. It was easy to shout at Greg, because he couldn’t shout at Shiv.

His therapist had told him she thought he was making significant improvements. 

But mostly he sat at his desk and sent his emails and worried about Greg.

_Worried_ about him. It had taken two and a half days for him to realize the feeling that was gnawing at his stomach was worry. Mostly, he thought Greg could take care of himself. He was… scrappy. Resourceful. But this was something else. 

He wanted to help. Tom would never pretend to be a good person, and he’d done his fair share of hurting people, including Greg, but this was different. This had to be different. 

He knew he was trying to make himself feel better about letting Greg leave the other morning. A lot of what Tom did was to make himself feel better. Tom knew a lot of America probably hated him still, though most of the scandal had died down for a new one to take its place. The Roys, he was sure, didn’t like him very much. He didn’t know how Shiv spoke of him, but given the fact that Logan had _never_ liked him, that had probably only deepened. 

But Greg remained a fucking enigma. 

_Did_ Greg still like him? Was he just the only person to pick up the phone the other night? 

On the fourth day, a Saturday, Tom spent the morning cleaning, and occasionally tossing Mondale’s chew toy for him to chase. Greg hadn’t commented on the state of the apartment, but Tom had become hyper aware of it ever since that night. The bottles and litter were all tossed away, along with several takeout containers that looked like something out of a mad scientist’s fucking lab at this point. 

“You don’t want to eat this buddy,” Tom told Mondale, who was sitting and waiting for Tom to give him some of the leftovers, “This belongs in the Smithsonian at this point. Besides, it’s not dinner time yet.”

The doorbell rang, and Mondale shot off like a cannonball to bark at the apparent threat. 

“Coming!” Tom called, tossing another container into the trash. He wiped his hands and went over, scooting Mondale out of the way so he could open the door. 

“Uh,” Greg stood there, looking a bit like a lost lamb. He pulled on his sleeve, “Hey man. Sorry, like, not to call or anything.”

“That’s fine,” Tom said, “I’m sure I’ve shown up at your place unannounced enough times to make up for it.”

“Can I, like, come in?”

Tom stepped back, and shut the door behind Greg.

“You got beer or something?” Greg asked, sinking down onto the sofa. 

Tom went into the kitchen, grabbed two beers from the fridge and returned to Greg, who had his face in his hands. Tom sat down next to him and bumped his knee with his own.

“You alright?”

He set the beers down on the coffee table and put a careful hand on Greg’s shoulder. 

“Greg?”

“I’m fine,” Greg shook him off and Tom did not try to touch him again. He popped open the beer and chugged about a third in one sip. Tom gaped at him, “I just kind of thought I might, like, actively die if I stayed at his apartment any longer?”

“ _What?_ ”

“Yeah,” Greg tucked some hair behind his ear, “I just thought wow, I think this man might kill me.”

“What do you mean?”

Greg shrugged, “I don’t know. I can’t, like, actively explain it to you. But like I told him, I stood up to him right? Like, don’t put your hands on me. But he, like, flipped out. I mean, I’ve seen _you_ do some neurotic shit but holy hell. I’ve never, like, seen that look of murder in a man’s eye. I didn’t think you were gonna kill me in that safe room man.”

“You’re being incredibly calm about this.”

“I already had a panic attack in the car,” Greg reasoned, and took another long sip of beer, “I don’t know man.”

The bruise on Greg’s cheek was starting to heal, and the cut too, looked better though not healed all the way. He wondered what excuse he’d given the people at Waystar. Honestly, Tom would believe any dumbass excuse Greg gave. He did think that Greg could injure himself at the gym, or making breakfast or something equally mundane. 

“Do you think that it would be, like, possible for me to crash here for a bit man? Mostly I’m scared he’s gonna show up at my place and kill me while I’m asleep. Like, genuinely fearful of the fact. I’m like, like kind of a pacifist you know? I don’t want to, be aggressive or whatever.”

Tom swallowed, “Yeah. You can stay here for as long as you want.”

“Thanks,” Greg said. He gave Tom an awkward one armed hug.

For the first time, Tom thought that he might kill Greg’s new boyfriend.

***

**_Now_ **

It’s cold as hell in the rain. 

Tom keeps his hands in the pockets of his jacket. He regrets tossing the gloves into the trash, but he needed to get rid of them somewhere far from the apartment. Besides. It feels _final_ somehow. 

“Get it all out of your system?” Paul asks, twirling the keys in his hand, “Kinda fun ain’t it?”

“I’m not a psychopath,” Tom replies, but don’t you have to be at least _somewhat_ fucked beyond the normal amount, “You’re _sure_ this can’t be traced back to me?”

Paul-- Tom thinks for the first time that it’s unlikely that’s his real name. Why it had taken him so long to assume that, given the fact that he’s a dark web hitman, he isn’t sure-- shakes his head, “Don’t worry. You paid me. The job’s done. The evidence planted right?”

“Right,” Tom wants to say that he’s done something like this before, “I just need to be certain.”

“Don’t worry. Now, you know what to do?”

Tom nods, “Yes. Am I supposed to thank you?”

Paul rolls his eyes, “You should get better at interacting with people before you hire a hitman again.”

“This is a one time only sort of thing,” Tom says. It’s hard to believe this conversation is even happening. But there’s a kind of grim satisfaction in it. It’s been heavily on his mind for several weeks now. It’s sort of a relief. He knows Greg’s been somewhat terrified of it all. Even though the man who’s now a body wrapped up in a tarp in the trunk never knew where Tom lived, and probably didn’t know that Greg was even there. But Tom had never been actively afraid of being murdered by someone before. He imagined that kind of fear was hard to shake, “For my friend.”

“Must have been some friend,” Paul shook his head, “You broke the burner phone?”

“Uh huh, as you said to do,” Tom glances around, but there’s no swarm of cop cars, no SWAT teams, and no sirens. In fact, the street is almost quiet. Save for the rain, of course, which is beginning to soak through his jacket now, “Some friend.”

“Well, get home safe.”

“Yeah you too.”

Paul drives off. Tom stands in the rain for a bit longer, and pops his collar up. He needs to get home. It’s nearly four, and if he’s not home by five thirty or so, Mondale will come rooting for him, and wake up Greg instead. He’s not ready for that conversation just yet.

He turns on his heel, and heads out towards the drug store down the street from his apartment. A reason for being out, that’s what Paul had said. Tom feels like maybe his adrenaline is starting to crash. He holds up a hand but it’s hardly shaking. 

In reality, it’s all kind of hitting him at once. What he’s done. And what’s hitting him is that he doesn’t feel...guilty about it. Maybe he’ll start washing his hands of a damned spot and go so crazy he’ll throw himself off a building. 

But really, he can’t help from smiling just a bit.

God, maybe he _is_ a psychopath. 

But he thinks about all the Regency men who challenge people to duels for dishonoring some woman they loved. Was this kind of like that? He doesn’t feel bad about what happened… not really. He thinks maybe he’ll be sick about it if he thinks too hard about it, but he also doesn’t have the urge to kill again. This isn’t some Zodiac Killer Son of Sam bullshit. It was a… personal revenge fantasy.

That’s all. 

***

**_Then_ **

Greg had little trouble integrating himself into Tom’s apartment. He agreed to take Mondale for a walk midday on the weekends, cooked, albeit fairly simple college dorm-esque meals, and didn’t complain once about sleeping on the sofa. It wasn’t like they’d never slept together, but Tom didn’t know how to bring up the offer, and Greg never mentioned it. 

But he could also tell that Greg was still immensely fucked up from it all. And Tom didn’t blame him. He was never good at getting Shiv to talk to him about things unless she wanted to talk about them. He found the same problem with Greg. 

The weeks bleed together. Greg went to work diligently, even though Tom tried to suggest that maybe he shouldn’t work two floors above a man he thought wanted to kill him, but Greg ignored that. Said that it would “most definitely be fine, because like, there’s security there. Like remember when that guy shot himself?”

Tom went to work too. He kept the apartment clean and Greg went grocery shopping. Mondale had always been fond of Greg, and liked to use Greg’s lap as his pillow. In fact, several nights he didn’t even sleep in Tom’s bed, but on the sofa with Greg.

Sometimes, Tom thought that maybe dogs could sense when people needed a little something. 

Tom wasn’t sure how much time, exactly, had passed since Greg had moved in. It passed differently, time, because he wasn’t spending it alone. He’d gotten so used to being by himself. But it was kind of nice, ordering pizzas to eat with Greg, sharing beer together. Greg didn’t even mind Tom’s new Jane Austen collection. It was _almost_ like the old days. But there was still some level of tension there. Greg had never explained his motivations for helping Kendall, and Tom didn’t know how to ask him now. And besides, there was a distinct third party looming over them, and Tom already knew he was prone to violence. 

The now faded bruise on Greg was a reminder of that. 

“Greg?” Tom asked, mostly before he could stop himself. It had been nearly two months now. Tom hadn’t forgotten Greg’s arrival and all it entailed, and he hadn’t forgotten the brief surge of fucking murderous anger he had felt at that moment, “Look, I know that you probably don’t want to talk about it or anything, but do you really think going to work in the same building as him is a good idea?”

Greg glanced over at Tom, “Dude, maybe _you_ should be a therapist. I think it’s working for you.”

“I’m serious,” Tom frowned, refusing to let Greg change the subject, “I know that maybe I don’t have a right to what you do. We’re not dating or whatever, but we’re friends?”

“Of course we’re friends. Like, I told you before you’re pretty much my best friend.”

Tom nodded, “And I just think you must fucking _hate_ yourself to go to work everyday and see him.”

He really didn’t know how to have these conversations. It wasn’t like Greg was a fucking teenager. He was a grown man, who had a right to do as he wanted. But that didn’t mean that Tom couldn’t care about him. It didn’t mean anything. That was what friends did.

“Tom, I’m like, relatively certain he’s not going to commit a murder in the middle of the office.”

“You should get a restraining order or something,” Tom said, and Greg rolled his eyes, “No, I’m serious. Aren’t you scared? You were scared enough to move in with me. I don’t understand it.”

“But you don’t _need_ to understand it. We’re not, like, dating Tom. What I do doesn’t concern you. No offense man, but we’re just roommates.”

Tom sat back, putting some more space between them, “Why’d you do it?”

“Do what?” 

“Help out Kendall?”

Greg shrugged, “I don't know.”

“You don’t know? You helped instigate a family civil war and you _don’t know?_ I swear to God Greg, I have never fucking understood a single thing you have done.”

“Good thing you don’t need to then,” Greg sat his glass down on the coffee table, got up, went into the bathroom, and slammed the door behind him.

Mondale stared at Tom, like even he understood that Tom had most assuredly fucked it all up.

“I’m going, I’m going,” Tom pushed himself up and Mondale jumped into his now abandoned seat. He assumed that Greg would have retreated to a bedroom if he had one, since the living room was technically his room and that didn’t have the same effect. 

He rapped on the door. 

“I really don’t want to talk about this right now,” Greg called, “I’m serious.”

“I’m sorry,” Tom replied, “I just- I care about you. That’s all. And I’m so fucking _angry_ that somebody put their hands on you.”

“Why?”

“We’re not hooking up anymore Greg. And we’re sort of friends again, but I still care about you and I don’t want you to get hurt. That’s all. I think you’re a dumbass, but you’re a _good_ person. I would never have had the guts to do that shit with the documents, no matter how bad I wanted to. You’re a _good_ person and you don’t deserve to be hurt. That’s all. Fuck me Greg, I’d fucking kill him if you wanted me too.”

The door flew open.

“You’re so fucking dramatic,” Greg said, but he was sort of smiling, “Do, like, do you think I could sleep in your room tonight?”

“You sound like a toddler. Of course you can.”

***

**_Now_ **

Tom pops into the 24 hour drugstore on his way home. He shakes the water off a bit and picks up cold medicine, cough drops, and a box of tissues. There’s a few other people in the store-- leave it to New Yorkers. The woman behind the counter lazily flips through a magazine as he dumps his things on the counter. 

“My roommate’s about to hack up a lung,” he says, though he’s not sure why he says anything, “Finally I said _I’ll_ go get you medicine so we can both sleep. Gotta take care of him I guess.”

She doesn’t reply, nor even acknowledge that she’s heard him but that’s fine. He’s been caught far downtown in the middle of the night, on record saying he’s been taking care of a sick roommate. It’s a silly task, he thinks, but he likes to have the receipt with the time printed on it, and he tucks it away into his wallet carefully. The humming lights of the store give way to the dark rain. He uses his jacket to cover his head and makes a dash for the apartment. 

The doorman isn’t on duty after midnight, which is why Tom left only a bit before. He wouldn't be around to see him gone for so long. He keys himself into the apartment, and shakes off the water again in the lobby. It’s bright in here, and the man who sits behind the desk at night looks up at him. 

“Oh, hello Mr. Wambsgans,” he says, “You’re out late.”

He holds up the bag, “Greg’s got some cold. Driving me fuckin’ nuts with his cough. I had to hunt this shit down in the rain. The one 6th was out. Had to walk like five blocks.”

This is true, because he checked the website for what was in stock.

“Ah,” he nods, “Peppermint tea. That’s the cure all.”

“I’ll have to give that a shot,” Tom waves and makes his way to the elevator. 

According to his watch, it is just after three, meaning he has been gone just three hours. It leaves him plenty of time to get changed and back into bed without Greg even realizing he was gone. Actually, he’s a bit ahead of schedule.

He holds out a hand. Shakier, but not bad. Not noticeable. 

The elevator dings on his floor and he steps out into the carpeted hallway. Turns left. Three doors down. Slowly, he unlocks the door and pushes it open, careful to move as quietly as possible, lest he send Mondale into a frenzy. 

Had he left the kitchen light on?

“Hey man,” Greg says from the sofa, and Tom nearly jumps out of his skin, “Where’d you go?”

“What?” Tom asks. His heart is pounding, threatening to beat out of his chest. Greg’s unexpected awareness has ushered in a new adrenaline rush, “You scared the shit out of me. Why are you awake?”

“I could definitely ask you that question,” Greg goes to stand on the opposite side of the sofa, putting a fair bit of distance between them. Tom sets the back down on the table by the door, “Cause like, _I’m_ not the one out at three in the morning in the rain. I went to call you but you left your phone. So like, I’m not sure where I’m supposed to think you went.”

“Do you really want me to tell you?” Tom asks quietly.

“I think that I know,” Greg frowns.

A beat passes. Tom fiddles with his jacket buttons. Maybe Greg will tell him to sit and he’ll call the cops. He’s not sure, actually, because Greg has on his unreadable face.

“I _think,_ ” Greg begins, “That it’s like, for the best you know?”

“What?” It’s not that Tom can’t believe this, it’s just that simple for him. Tom has a first degree murder on his hands and Greg doesn’t even seem to care, “You’re kidding me.”

“I wouldn’t want, like somebody else to get hurt. And like, I don’t, I don’t know. I feel like he was looking at the new intern, and she’s like nineteen. I was working on how to tell her. Like I don’t know. It doesn’t _feel_ great. I mean. Objectively right? But like, sometimes she just has to be done.” 

Tom pulls off his jacket, and hangs it on the coat rack.

“Holy shit man is that your blood?”

Tom looks down at this shirt, “Oh. No.”

“Come with me,” Greg offers his hand, and after a second, Tom takes it.

***  
**_Then_**

Tom laid on his back, hands folded across his chest, and stared at the ceiling. His bed was more than big enough for two people, and Greg was taking advantage of that, already asleep, all the way on the other side of the bed. 

He couldn’t help but glance over every once and awhile.

Since he had, in fact, seen Greg sleep before, he could tell that Greg was actually asleep, and not faking it to get out of talking. Greg was a heavy sleeper-- so unlike Tom’s newfound insomnia. 

Mondale had been upset that his sleeping buddy wasn’t coming back into the living room, and Tom had let him into the bedroom, and onto the bed. It wasn’t worth arguing with Mondale. Tom didn’t have that many people in his life, he couldn’t go making the dog mad at him.

God, _that_ was pathetic.

In his sleep, Greg made a noise, stretched, and fell silent. 

Tom refused to let himself develop any sort of feelings for Greg. He’d been down that road before, and it was not going to happen again. Besides, he was only feeling affection or whatever because Greg was hurt and upset. There couldn’t be another reason.

He isn’t sure when he falls asleep, but Tom gets woken by somebody tugging on the covers, andt the feeling of someone shifting in bed. He thought it must be Mondale at first, but when he sat up to check if Mondale needed something, he saw Greg, sitting up, hunched over.

“Greg?” he asked, his voice scratchy, “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Greg said, sounding incredibly _un_ fine, “I just had a bad dream is all. Sorry if I woke you up. Did I wake you up?”

“Yes but don’t be sorry about it. What was your dream?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Want to sleep over here with me?” He felt like he was talking to a scared little kid, but everyone was more vulnerable in the dark, at night, when they were alone.

Greg nodded, and practically crawled over. Tom situated himself, and brought Greg’s head down to his chest. 

“I thought that he might actually like me,” Greg whispered, “Was I stupid?”

“No honey,” Tom said, “You weren’t stupid. You were maybe a little idealistic about people. Especially rich people. They don’t give a shit about anybody but themselves in the end. You can’t fucking rely on anybody.”

“Tom?”

“Yes?”

“Are you talking about me or you now?”

“Please let’s go back to sleep. I’m tired as hell.”

***

**_Now_ **

Greg sits Tom on the edge of the bathtub.

“I think you should probably take your shirt off.”

A few flirty comments dance around Tom’s brain but he doesn’t have the energy to say any of them. Instead, he moves to unbutton his shirt, but his hands are shaking terribly. They both look at it.

“Well I did just murder someone,” Tom says, holding his hands out in front of him, “I think the adrenaline crashed.”

Greg keels down, takes both of Tom’s hands in his. Tom leans forward, and presses their foreheads together. He closes his eyes. 

Tom still hears his pulse in his ears, and he shivers slightly now. He does not know how much time passes like this. It could be a minute, it could be several days. Tom doesn’t want him to leave, but his teeth are starting to chatter.

“Let’s get you warmed up,” Greg says softly, and Tom feels stupid that Greg is babying him after he just _murdered_ someone. He hates that Greg has to do this. Greg kisses his forehead and leans back enough to deftly undo Tom’s buttons. Tom slips out of the shirt and lets it fall behind him. 

“Why did you wear a light colored shirt?” Greg asks. He flips the sink on and wets a washcloth. Tom shivers more now, but peels off his undershirt. He did good, for the most part, keeping blood off of him, but some of his has soaked through to his skin. Greg presses the warm cloth to him. He relishes in the feeling, in the cloth, in Greg’s hands.

“It slipped through my planning. Besides, this is a spring color.”

“Oh planning? So premeditated. I think that’s worse man.”

Tom shrugs. The water is warm, though he’s still shivering a bit, “We could get married. I don’t think they could force you to testify against me.”

“Dude, you were here all night,” Greg says, squeezing the washcloth out into the bathtub, the sight of the blood turns his stomach, “Like, whatever alibi you want, I got. I’m not testifying against you anyway.”

“I’ve got it all planned,” Tom says, “I’ll tell you in the morning.”

“I’m gonna get you some pajamas,” Greg pauses long enough only to kiss Tom’s head, “Don’t, like, freeze while I’m gone.”

Tom laughs. It sounds manic.

Greg vanishes for a moment, then returns with a pile of clothes. Together, they manage to get Tom changed. He feels a bit like a rag doll. Shouldn’t he be the one taking care of Greg? Wasn’t that how this was meant to go? Tom takes care of Greg and Greg sticks around so Tom doesn’t go insane?

Tom loves Greg enough to get him to stay, and Greg tolerates it?

He doesn’t really think this is the case but his brain isn’t working properly right now. 

“I think,” Greg looks down, “That I need to thank you. No one has ever done something like this for me before? I don’t know. I don’t think most people like me and most people definitely wouldn’t murder someone for me. It’s kind of romantic. In, like a murder kind of way. So like I know it’s really fucked up of me to say that. I don’t really know if I’m worth it.”

Tom takes Greg’s face in his hands and kisses him, full on the lips, for the first time since the press conference. 

“I love you,” Greg says when the pull apart, “I never, ever stopped. I just, like, didn’t know how to tell you.”

“I love you too,” Tom says, “Guess that’s kind of obvious now.”

“But like please don’t do it again? 

Tom laughs. A little calmer this time, “To be honest Greg I don’t think I could.”

“I’m like serious though. I do love you. I seriously do.”

“I love you too,” Tom draws a deep breath. He’s not quite as shaky anymore, but he knows this will not go away soon, “I need a drink.”

“I’ll make you one.”

***

**_Then_ **

“Why don’t you just get a restraining order?” Tom asked. Greg had returned home from work two hours early, feigning a stomach ache to get out of a meeting-- or rather, he _said_ he was pretending, but Tom thought he looked pale and maybe actually had gotten himself so worked up he was sick, “I don’t get it.”

Greg shrugged from his place at the kitchen table, “I mean like, I can’t do that.”

“You’re a grown man Greg, you’re allowed to get a restraining order. Do you need me to escort you there?”

“I can’t,” Greg shook his head, “Because he said that if I _did_ anything or _told_ anyone, he would tell everybody about you and I. Would tell _Kendall_ about you and I.”

“How the fuck does he ever know about us?”

“I don’t know,” Greg said, exasperation filling his tone, “Like, I think maybe he guessed or something and then when he said it and I backed down he knew it was true. I can’t have everybody knowing that. Logan would probably kill you and Kendall would have to let me go and I literally cannot afford to be unemployed again. I will be a mess again. Plus, I don’t actually want the entire world knowing my business?”

_This_ , Tom thought, _is strike two._

(Actually, he wouldn't think this exact phrase until later, when he thought the events over, but he _did_ think about killing that man again.)

“You can’t keep living like this,” Tom placed a glass of water in front of Greg and sat down, “You have to do something dipshit.”

“I don’t know what to do.”

Tom frowned. He hated to admit that he really did care about Greg. That he had let himself start caring ages ago and he couldn’t stop now. It didn’t matter anymore if Greg never wanted to be anything more ever again-- Tom was pretty proud of _that_ growth-- but he couldn’t let Greg make himself sick with anxiety over the fact that a man who had physically harmed him and threatened him worked two floors below him, and Greg was constantly afraid he was going to get murdered.

“Listen,” Tom hesitated for a moment, and then covered one of Greg’s hands with his own. Greg didn’t pull away, so he left it, “You can’t keep living like this. I’m so serious.”

“You’re not gonna call me stupid?”

Tom sighed, “You are stupid Greg, but this is not a stupid thing. This is a really serious thing and we have to figure something out?”

“We?”

“Well you’re living in my house. I feel like this is a _we_ situation.”

Greg gaped at him with his stupid sad eyes and dumb ass look.

“What?”

“No just like,” Greg smirked, “You made me destroy evidence by myself and literally refused to take any of the blame and now this is a _we_ problem.”

“Things change,” Tom said firmly.

***

**_Now_ **

Quietly, Greg puts a beer in Tom’s hand and sits him down on the sofa. Tom opens it but doesn’t drink it and Greg sinks into the spot next to him, staring expectantly. Tom knows he probably does owe Greg something. An explanation. A story. _Something._

“Are you sure you want to be an accomplice?” Tom asks.

Greg nods, “What’s _another_ felony between friends?”

Greg’s voice is weak, but Tom appreciates the attempted joke, “You know, my mother told me once that if they can’t find the body or any evidence of it, that you can’t actually be tried.”

“Is that true?”

Tom shrugged, “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“So like, there’s no body?”

“Uh huh,” Tom swallowed. His stomach lurched, “That’s all taken care of.”

“Are you alright?”

“What?”

“I mean, will you be alright? Cause, no offense dude, that’s like, pretty hardcore to do. I would be pretty fucked up if it was me probably.”

“I’ll tell you,” Tom says.

The story spills out, from the weeks of planning and thinking and the money and the searching and the act itself. Greg doesn’t say a single world until Tom shuts his mouth and leans back. Still, Greg doesn’t speak. Processing. Tom half expects him to get up and leave. 

“Do you regret it?” Greg asks instead.

“No,” Tom says, and then stands up, “I think I’m going to be sick.”

He leaves Greg sitting there and heads to the bathroom where everything he had eaten that night-- which wasn’t much-- comes back up. 

Blindly, he gropes to flush, and shuts the lid, pressing his face against the cool porcelain. 

Now this, he thinks, is pathetic. Tom fucking Wambsgans, Shiv Roy’s ex husband, ex head of ATN, fucking _murderer_ , apparently with his face on the toilet.

“Here,” Greg appears. Tom did not hear him come in. He holds a glass of water and helps Tom drink it, “Slow. You’ll puke again. Did I ever tell you about when I got fired from the amusement park?”

“What?” Tom asks, but Greg’s stupid story question takes his mind off things long enough for him to sip at the water.

“Yeah like, I got a job at the amusement park, and they put me in one of those fucking outfits. The animal outfits you know that they have for the kids? And I was fucking high as shit and puked out of its eyes. We parted ways after that, you know, professionally. Sometimes I wonder if, like, the woman running the training saw me at the senate like, hey, that’s the kid who puked out of Doderick’s eyeholes.”

“That’s fucking disgusting Greg.”

“Yeah it was,” Greg laughs, “It was fucking gross but like, it was the thing that made my mom send me to New York. So actually if I hadn’t done it we never would have met.”

“That’s one for the wedding vows.”

“Better? I can, like, bring you some crackers if you want?”

“I’m alright. I think I’m just catching up from the night’s events. You think MacBeth puked after killing Duncan?”

“Dude, honestly, I don’t even know who Duncan is? MacBeth I know, but I mostly know Romeo and Juliet. Wherefore art thou and all that. But like, I remember when Romeo killed, like, Juliet’s cousin, so maybe he went and puked after. Does that make you feel better?”

“Help me off the floor. I want to brush my teeth,” Tom shakes his head and laughs weakly, “You’re so dumb Greg. I love you.”

“I love you too,” Greg smiles, “And I think you love me more than I, like, ever knew.”

Well. Maybe not so pathetic after all. 

***

**_Then_ **

The final straw came unexpectedly. 

Tom had been flirting with the idea of murder the same way you might joke about killing someone who hurt you. An ex who cheated. Someone who stole from you.

Who hurt someone that you loved.

He had never thought of himself as the murderous type. Sure, he knew he was prone to some anger issues, that was obvious, but he’d actually been making steady progress with that. Mostly, he just thought about it because there wasn’t anything else to do. Greg refused his help, and hardly told him anything. Tom didn’t know what else he _could_ do.

But it was all bullshit. He wasn’t planning anything, wasn’t considering anything. Just bullshitting. Greg would come home from work-- Tom usually got home first. They would eat dinner. Greg wouldn’t talk about his day. Tom would take Mondale out for a walk and they would dick around for a few hours and then go to bed. Greg had returned to playing cold war with the bed. Tom didn’t try to force the issue. If Greg wanted to curl in on himself, that was fine. If Greg wanted to spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder that was fine. He was an adult, and Tom was _not_ going to mother him.

But then Kendall called him.

Tom hadn’t spoken to Kendall since a bit before the divorce was finalized. He didn’t think that Kendall and Roman _hated_ him, though he was sure that Logan probably talked shit about him, and he was sure Shiv would never fully admit that they’d _both_ been responsible for things going wrong. 

“Uh. Hey Kendall?”

“Hey man,” Kendall said. Tom was relieved that he sounded just as confused to be calling as Tom felt, “Look, I know that you and Greg are fucking _roommates_ or whatever now, so I’m calling you.”

“Alright?”

Tom glanced at his desktop clock. It was just after three. He could be downtown in half an hour or so if he tried. If he caught a train. Traffic would probably be bad on a Friday. The subway was his best option.

Why had he assumed the worst?

“And he’s freaking out in my office, and I can’t send him home in this state, so if you could, come and fucking, collect him or whatever that would be great.”

“Oh,” Tom said. His mouth felt dry, like sandpaper, “Yes. I’ll come get him. Is he alright?”

“I don’t know. You know how he fucking gets. I can’t deal with this right now.”

“Am I going to be shot as soon as I enter the lobby?”

Kendall didn’t laugh, “I’ll send someone down to get you. Bye.”

He hung up and for a minute or so, Tom held the phone by his ear, not realizing that Kendall had, in fact, left the call.

Tom collected his things, played the _family emergency, I’ll be on my email all weekend, just let me know_ card, and took off. 

When he made it to the Waystar building-- he’d made it on the subway alright, and used half a bottle of hand sanitizer in the lobby-- someone, like Kendall had said, came to collect him. Tom felt a bit like a political traitor on his way to be shot in the town square, but he was more worried about Greg. If they were also going to have his head cut off and placed on a spike in the lobby, there wasn’t much he could do about it now anyway. The elevator doors had already closed after all.

“Hey Kendall.”

“Hi Tom.”

They stared at each other for a minute or so.

“Looks like big things are happening here,” Tom motioned vaguely around the floor, which, honestly, looked the same as it had the last time Tom had been there, “Good for you.”

“Right,” Kendall looked him up and down, “Well you can go and get him or whatever. You two fucking or?”

“Ah no,” Tom shook his head, “No we’re not. He’s just crashing with me.”

“We always thought you were,” Kendall shrugged, and left Tom with that and no further explanation. 

Tom felt like everyone was staring at him, though it was highly unlikely that they were. He slipped into the office and Greg, who had been sitting on the sofa with his head in his hands, jumped up and flew into his arms. 

“It’s alright,” Tom said, “What happened? Kendall called me and said you were freaking out? What the fuck man?”

“I didn’t like, think that he was going to call you,” Greg said, “He thinks that like he owes me or whatever for helping him out with the press conference, but I don’t know.”

“What happened?” Tom asked. He wasn’t even annoyed that he’d had to leave work, or see Kendall or anything. Maybe he would be later, but right now his brain and heart were in agreement- whatever had happened was bad, and Greg fucking needed him or whatever.

Maybe it was just nice to be needed again.

“Quit leaning on me Greg, you’re going to snap me in half,” Tom attempted to stand Greg upright, “Besides, it’s not good for your freakishly long self to bend like that. Now. What happened to you and who should I kill?”

Greg chuckled, “yeah right? No, like I’m not sure, exactly, how like he found out or anything but I think he knows I’m staying with you?”

“And? I have a nice apartment with a nice security system. I’ll call the fucking cops.”

“No it’s not that. It’s like, he’s fucking _insane_ man. Like he’s pissed about it.”

“So what did he do? Greg, buddy, no offense, but you got to give me something to work with. I played the family emergency card, and the people on my floor _know_ I live by myself with a dog. There’s going to be a million questions on Monday.”

“He wants me to move in with him.”

“Well,” Tom couldn’t help but laugh, “That’s not going to happen. You’re not going to go play punching bag to some rich fucking asshole. That’s not going to happen. We can figure it out. Who fucking cares if Logan knows we used to fuck. Shiv and I aren’t married anymore. It doesn’t matter to me. Get a restraining order and figure it out from there. I’m so serious Greg.”

“It’s not that _easy_ Tom. We can’t all, just like, divorce our problems.”

“I’m not responding to that because I know you’re fucking messed up right now.”

“Sorry,” Greg frowned, and pinched the bridge of his nose, “I’m really stressed.”

“Yeah. I know. Tell me what’s going on huh?”

***

**_Possibly_ **

Here is how Tom thinks it will go.

It will take the weekend for anybody to know he’s missing. That’s logical. Lots of people go away for a weekend. It’s not suspicious. 

Then several days will pass. HR will notice he’s not been to work. His office mates will say they haven’t seen him. Someone will go to the apartment for a wellness check. Something like that. Tom doesn't really care. They will realize many of his personal effects are gone. His car is not in the parking garage. Someone will eventually call the police.

They’ll start looking. It’s not a crime scene _yet_ but eventually it’ll be taken as a missing persons case. Hopefully, they’ll think he ran off of his own accord, to avoid the strong arm of the law for all the things they will discover that he has done. 

Tom hopes that it’s treated as a criminal investigation of him, and not anybody else, but Tom knows it could go another way.

Greg will eventually be connected to him. There’s no way around that. But Tom has told Greg what to say. 

He pictures Greg talking to the police, telling them that he and the missing haven’t spoken in several weeks, that he was acting secretive, and worried. Greg thought he’d fallen in with some bad people, and when he voiced this, he’d been kicked out and not asked back.

This will fly. Tom doesn’t know why it wouldn’t. None of the other people in the apartment will have seen Greg for weeks, and all of the other Waystar employees can agree with that. 

The police will review security footage, but they will find nothing. When you pay someone who murders for money _enough_ of that money they’ll take care of mundane little things like that for you. They will see their suspect leave his apartment that afternoon and not come back

The police will also discover a key to the apartment complex’s back office, where the security tapes broadcast. 

This will cause suspicion. Could he have fucked with the tapes to cover his own steps?

Maybe they will start to build a case. 

Rich man risks it all, and loses. He owes money to very scary people who will dissolve you in acid and toss you into the East River if you don’t pay them. They will discover he dicks around with drugs and gambling and a touch of insider trading. Enough to pursue a case if he ever shows up again.

Enough to send a man running if he thinks he is caught. 

Good thing you left when you did, the police will tell Greg, when he plays dumb-- a talent of his-- and insists he didn’t know anything about all of that and he only wanted to help, though he had, like, a gut feeling something was wrong you know? 

Tom also knows that deep down, if it all goes south, if he fucked up somehow, he will take the credit. Strike some deal so that Greg’s left alone. That he is certain of every time he watches Greg smile, every time Greg gets down on the floor to play with Mondale. Every night when Greg sleeps on his chest.

In the end though, it doesn’t matter because the trail goes cold in Brazil. Far enough away, Tom thinks, from downtown Manhattan, to let out a sigh of relief. 

Unfortunate, the news will say, that the bastard got away with it. People will come forward with information they claim to have, trying to claim the cash reward, but Tom will them. They claim they saw the deceased at JFK, at Penn Station, in New Jersey. The investigation stalls, fizzles, and dies. The potential informants die off as a scandal at a giant nonprofit in Queens breaks, and the news decides it’s more exciting, because there’s still lawyers to give press conferences and the CEO lives on the Upper West Side , ready to be harassed by reporters. It’s much more entertaining than a potentially alive, maybe dead rich guy who fucked off after he fucked up. It’s boring.

It’s for the best, Greg will say again, sometimes you get what’s coming to you.

***

**_Then_ **

Greg sat back down on the sofa. Tom never really understood why executives had whole living rooms in their offices, but he was grateful for it then. Hesitantly, he sat down next to Greg.

Shiv had liked silence when she was upset. Sometimes, he wasn’t even sure she wanted him there in the first place. Couldn’t tell if she wanted to stew in her anger or sadness alone. He liked to sit with her until she said otherwise. It was the easiest way to show that he cared. 

Greg was different though. His nervous talking habit gave way to his need to nervously listen if he was upset. Tom knew _he_ could not stew in silence. It would make things worse. 

“If you don’t want to tell me,” Tom prompted, “You don’t have to. But when Kendall calls me and tells me you’re having a fucking panic attack in his office or whatever, and given what’s been going on, well, I’m worried about you.”

“I think that like, maybe I can take a lot you know?” Greg frowned, “But I don’t want to get you involved in my stupid shit.”

“Greg, I know that I’ve called you stupid before, but you were not stupid about this. It wasn’t your fault.”

“He said if I didn’t do like I asked, he was going to ruin _your_ life. I don’t know man, I think he like, _knows_ people or whatever, and you like your new job so much, and I know he could get you fired and kicked out of your apartment and shit like that, I morally, I can’t stomach that.”

Tom blinked.

“So I think it’s best that I just do what he says you know?”

This was the straw, so to speak. He knew that it probably could have come sooner. The thought of someone hurting anybody that he cared for already made him sick, and he’d just watched it happen. Maybe Tom didn’t have too many people in his life who he cared for that actually seemed to care for him back.

“You’ve done so much for me,” Greg continued, “Like, everything. You helped me get a job, and you didn’t rat me out to Logan in Hungary, and you’re letting me live with you. Like I think I owe you this much.”

Tom didn’t know how, exactly, one decided that they were going to kill someone. Sure, lots of time it was probably a heat of the moment situation. Self defense. A crime of passion. A hundred spur of the moment reasons, but there were _other_ types as well. First degree. Second degree. How did someone decide they were going to forever alter themselves?

He still didn’t know the answer to that, but looked at Greg’s watery eyes and pathetic face, and the decision was made, firmly, in his mind. It was almost, _almost_ a relief to have made a decision to finally fucking do something about it. Despite the fact that he’d have to figure out a thousand things, despite the risk involved in all of it. 

“Come on,” Tom said, “I’ll take you home- take you back to mine. You look like shit.”

“I mean it,” Greg said, “I’m doing this.”

“We can talk about that,” Tom replied, “But not right now. Right now we’ll go back and you can relax a bit. Alright? I won’t let you do it Greg. But we can talk about it.”

“I want to look after you too,” Greg said, so softly, that Tom almost missed it. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve. In fact, Tom wondered if maybe he wasn't supposed to have heard it. That Greg had _said_ it, but hadn’t meant to, or hadn’t expected it to be audible. Said it accidentally. 

Tom debated responding. Did Greg want to know Tom had heard him? That it was the first time that somebody had given a shit about him in years? That he didn’t even know what to do with that? 

Instead he tugged at Greg’s hand and stood up, “Come on. I’ll buy you that shitty take out you like from the place across the street. If we hurry, you can still get the lunch special. It’s not even two.”

He decided not to mention it. Not now anyway.

***

**_Now_ **

The morning after-- a funny phrase for this specific situation, Tom thinks-- Greg makes him breakfast. His stomach is still a bit queasy from the previous night, and he didn’t sleep much. He got a few hours, with Greg holding him, and the rain beating down on the window and Mondale snoring at the foot of the bed, but even with the few hours, he doesn’t feel that tired. 

“Just eggs I thought,” Greg sets the plate in front of him, “Easy on the stomach.”

“Thanks,” Tom pokes at them with his fork, and takes a careful bite. When he doesn’t feel bad, he takes another small bite, “I mean, I benefit from it as well. Won’t lose my job. Well, unless I go to prison.”

Greg holds his coffee and leans against the counter, “I thought about it too. Killing him.”

The words fall from his lips and land smack on the table between them. He isn’t sure what to do with them really, so he looks back up at Greg, who is acting like he hadn’t just said that, but had merely commented on the rain outside. 

“Really?”

Greg nods and takes a sip of his coffee, “I don’t know, like, if I could have done it man, but I wasn’t going to let him fuck up _your_ life too. Just ‘cause, you let me live with you. Like that’s even shittier. You’re pretty much my only friend. And I don’t know. I kind of liked playing the hero or whatever when I gave that shit to Kendall. I know it was selfish.”

“No it wasn’t,” Tom interrupts, “It was kind of brave.”

“But it felt good. I wanted to be able to play the hero for you too. Mostly cause I love you. Like I could be Superman or whatever.”

“I’m not being your Lois Lane.”

Greg chuckles and comes over. He kisses the top of Tom’s head fondly, “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“Do you think, like,” Greg frowns and sits down, “Like we should talk about this? What it means, for, like, _us?_ ”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, just like, this is a big deal-”

“Gregory-”

“But like, I don’t think I can ever forget what you did for me.”

“You were going to move back in with him for me,” Tom says, “We can be even. Even footing is a good place to start. We can wipe the slate. Of all that bullshit.”

He waves vaguely. He’s thinking about a lot of things. Of last night. Of the cruise shit, of the press conference, of his marriage to Shiv and the Roys and everything in between. They can wipe it all off the slate. 

He wants that.

“Let’s move out of the city,” Greg says suddenly. Tom pauses halfway through bringing a forkful of eggs to his mouth, “Connecticut. Or Canada. Or something.”

“Now we’re crossing state lines after a felony,” Tom shakes his head, “We’re racking up the charges you and me Mr. Hirsch.”

“Dude,” Greg says and Tom is beginning to realize that _dude_ is Greg-speak for babe. Maybe sweetheart. Darling. Whatever, “I’m an accomplice. I’m definitely getting off with way less.”

“Connecticut's nice,” Tom says because he thinks this isn’t a comment Greg really wants a reply on and he’s also pretty sure Greg is trying to make light of the situation, “Take the train into the city. Get a house.”

“Mondale would like a yard,” Greg nods to the doorway, where Mondale is just visible in the other room, gnawing on a bone, “A good place to run around. That’s good for a dog his age.”

“Put it in your name. Case the feds come looking for me.”

Greg rolls his eyes, “Tom, no offense man, but if you go down, I’m going down too.”

“We won’t go down,” Tom says, “Sometimes, we get what we deserve. And fucking hell Greg, I think we’ve earned something nice by now.”

This isn’t strictly true. Tom knows that you don’t _earn_ things in life. You can try as hard as you want but sometimes you don’t get things. Instead, sometimes things just happen to and around you.

Oh God, was this some fucked up way to take control of his life?

But then he looks over at Greg, remembers the bruise on his cheek, the way he’d jumped into Tom’s arms in Kendall’s office. Remembers the way he’d been so scared he was going to die.  
Maybe in part Tom was trying to take control of his life. But he also thinks he did what needed to be done. 

For them both.

“It was a good thing,” Greg says firmly, and maybe that can be the end of it.

***

**_Then_ **

Tom is fairly certain that Greg doesn’t know what he’s planning. If he has any guesses, he doesn’t show it. It’s possible that Greg does know, and just isn’t planning on stopping him. But if that’s not the case, then when he’d done it, and it’s all over, then Tom can grovel or beg for forgiveness or whatever it is Greg wants from him after.

Tom soon discovered that there was little money couldn’t buy. 

His paycheck was big enough, and even though there was one other person eating his food-- Greg had tried to pay for groceries, but Tom refused to let him yet. He was, as Tom put it, technically still a guest and Tom’s mother would never forgive him if a guest paid for their own room and board. But even with the groceries et all for two men and a dog, Tom found that he had more than enough to hire someone to help him.

He remembered joking-- well slightly joking but mostly not-- about hiring men to break Nate’s legs at his reception, but this felt personal. He just needed… guidance about the whole thing. 

That was how he had ending up hiring a hitman. 

Just saying it felt batshit crazy but again. There was little money couldn't buy. 

Paul-- at least that’s what he called himself. Tom imagined it was probably not his real name. He hadn’t asked questions when Tom explained who he wanted dead, and had agreed that it would be, at least in his experience, a fairly easy job to cover up and send the police after a red herring. 

“I want to do it myself,” Tom said.

“Must be personal,” Paul remarked casually.

“Deeply.”

“Whatever you want.”

Tom handed over the cash. It had taken longer than he wanted figuring out how to _get_ that much cash, but sometimes people didn’t ask questions if you knew the right people, and though the Roys didn’t associate with him any longer, he had networked well when they had evidently.

“And you’re sure you can help me ensure it’s not traced back to me?”

Paul nodded, “Do you want my fucking resume? A couple of references? I’m good at my job.”

Originally, Tom thought he could do it all himself, but with all of the things he’d need to do, all of the potential for mistakes and slip ups, he decided he needed a professional. As badly as he knew this was a bit vengeful, he couldn’t be stupid. Not if Greg could be hurt in the process. He didn’t want to bring _more_ embarrassment down on his family. And even though he and Shiv had had a less than amicable divorce, he knew if he was arrested and jailed for _murder_ he’d be the laughing stock of everybody she knew, and that wasn’t right by her. 

“Are you sure about this?” Paul asked, though his tone sounded like he didn’t really give a shit if Tom was sure or not. 

“Positive.”

“I’ll see you then,” Paul said, and Tom felt a bit odd at the fact that this was a normal business deal for him, “If you fuck it up though, I’m taking the money and running. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly. See you on Friday.”

Tom felt a bit like he’d just signed his soul away. 

And honestly? He quickly found he didn’t give a shit.

***

**_Now_ **

The weeks passed, and Tom felt like someone had taken a giant weight off his chest and tossed it out of the window. It was a bit like the feeling after Greg had destroyed the cruise documents. 

Well, the period in between then and when Greg had revealed he hadn’t _quite_ done that.  
The news broke about the missing person and the trail in Brazil and all of the bad shit that he’d _already_ been involved in. Again, Tom was thankful he didn’t have to do all the work himself. Greg played dumb when Kendall told him the news, but mentioned they hadn’t seen each other in several weeks. 

Greg remains serious about moving. 

“We’re, like, official now. We should get a home and shit.”

“A home and shit?” 

“Yeah man. Like, I’ve been on Zillow- you know Zillow?”

“Oh my God Greg yes.”

“And I think it’d be nice to get out of the city. You and me. You do, like, still want to be with me right?”

“Of course I want to be with you Greg. Do you want to be with me?”

“You’re kinda dumb,” Greg says. He takes Tom’s face in his hands and kisses him. It feels like a thousand emotions are in that one kiss. Are in the way Greg’s thumb brushes across his face. Are in the way Greg’s crooked smile looked when they pull apart. 

“Connecticut,” Tom says, “That’s what I think. Somewhere near a train line.”

“Connecticut,” Greg repeats, “I’ll consult the internet.”

“Thank God for Zillow right dipshit?”

Why, Tom wants to ask, on God’s green Earth do you want me? After everything you want the sad middle aged divorcee with fucking blood on his hands. Why, when Greg has a cushy job and a hefty paycheck and no ex wives or felonies-- he still thinks Greg managed to avoid most of the fallout from the cruises and he’s glad about-- who could probably have anybody he wanted if he went looking. 

But Greg wants him. Was willing to give up so much to let Tom keep his life as it is. 

“Don’t put your credit card number in anywhere,” Tom says, “I don’t think I trust you real estate.”  
“I’m very qualified to browse real estate Tom.”

Tom laughs, “Sure Greg. I’ll be the judge of that.”

***

**_Then_ **

Tom glanced at his watch. He was just on time. Everything would either come together over the next few hours, or Tom would spend the rest of his life in prison or on the run. He hoped desperately that it was going to work, but he still felt anxiety churning in his stomach. 

In all likelihood he did trust Paul. He did think this would go alright, but he wouldn’t relax until he slipped back into bed next to Greg-- who he’d left asleep just an hour ago. He felt _bad_ slipped out of the covers and sneaked through the apartment. He’d given Mondale a new bone to keep him busy.

There was a possibility that Greg would wake up and wonder where he’d been. But Tom thought out that, and left the bathroom light on and shut the door. Hopefully, if that was the case, Greg would see the light under the door and go back to sleep.

But he pressed down every thought about that right now. Tom needed all his wits about him. 

The timing was right, and if Paul didn’t lie to him, the security tapes would not see Tom knock on the door. Would not have seen him step out of the elevator. None of it. He was, so far at least, in the clear. 

The door opened. 

Tom had only met the man maybe once in life, back in his Waystar days. But Tom was recognized easy enough. He supposed one had to _know_ the person whose life they were threatening to destroy. 

“What do you want?”

Tom smiled, and put a hand on the door so it couldn’t be slammed in his face, “You and I are going to talk.”

And it felt _good._

***

**_Later_ **

Greg is gone when he wakes up. Tom tosses an arm over to Greg’s side of the bed but the sheets are cold and so he pushes himself up to look around. The sun streams in through the big windows-- Tom never understood having such large windows in your bedroom until they moved here, with the view of the trees. 

Mondale is gone too, so he figured maybe Greg took the dog for a walk and hasn’t come back yet. If he know Greg-- and he does-- this is the sort of morning that Greg would prefer to spend tucked in bed, so Tom gets up to go and hunt for him.

The hallway smells like bacon and coffee. Tom figures Greg is up and cooking breakfast which is not at all his habit on a weekend. Usually Tom has to practically drag the man out of bed by force.

“What’s the occasion?” Tom asks, leaning in the kitchen doorway. The kitchen is bright and airy, though Greg has made a bit of a mess with the flour on the countertops. He turns and smiles. 

“Breakfast,” Greg gestures with the spatula, “Ta-da.”

“Yes Gregory, I can see with my eyes that you’ve made breakfast but it’s Saturday. So far as I’m aware it’s not my birthday, your birthday or our anniversary. 

The anniversary question had taken a few hours to work out. Neither of them could remember the date they first hooked up. And even though Tom knew the date they first _met_ that wasn’t what an anniversary technically was. 

(Greg had suggested the first time they said I love you, but Tom reminded him that was the same night as the Event, which was what he called it, and that it wasn't very romantic. Greg had argued that it _was_ romantic, but Tom didn’t want their anniversary to be that date.)

Finally, Tom had suggested a day several weeks after the Event, in which he could remember having a very nice dinner. It seemed easiest. 

But that day wasn’t even today. 

“It’s a special occasion,” Greg waves the spatula and sends several drops of pancake batter sailing to the floor. Mondale races over to lick it up, “Sit. The pancakes will be ready soon.”

“It’s not bad news right?” Tom asks, sinking into his chair, “I mean, the NYPD didn’t find any bodies in the river right?”

Greg laughs, “No man, it’s nothing to do with that. Quit being freaked and drink your coffee.”

Tom plays along and smirks over his coffee mug, “Can I guess?”

“You can certainly try,” Greg flips several pancakes onto two plates, and rips one in several pieces to dump in Mondale’s bowl. He’s told Greg a thousand times that Mondale shouldn’t have people food, but they’ve both teamed up against him so he’s outnumbered and Mondale gets plenty of people food, “Or you can wait, like two minutes for me to get my shit together and find out.”

“ _Fine._ ”

Greg laughs and sets the plates down, then disappears into the front hall. Tom leans back in his chair to try and see, but Greg’s out of sight. 

“What are you doing out there Greg?” Tom calls, “Did you fall into the coat closet?”

“Dude that felt vaguely homophobic,” Greg calls back.

Tom rolls his eyes and Greg reappears, one hand behind his back.

“Uh oh, what’s Greg got?” Tom smiles, “You look like the cat that ate the canary. What’s that?”

“Like,” Greg chuckles and looks down, “I know this might be kind of unexpected but I wanted to ask you something.”

“I’m not murdering someone else for you,” Tom says, “I told you it was a one time thing. You can do this one yourself.”

“Haha,” Greg rolls his eyes, “If you don’t _want_ what I got you, I don’t have to give it to you. I can take it back to the store. Are you gonna stop being annoying about it?”

“I’ll be good. Promise,” Tom mimes zipping his lips. 

“Good cause you tell me I talk a lot, but dude, you never ever shut up. I was worried I’d neve ber able to get this all out because you were gonna talk through it.”

Greg seems to be relishing in Tom’s promised silence. Tom lets him have it.

“So,” Greg takes several steps forward, “I don’t actually know how to do this, but like I wanted to, respectfully ask if you would, honorably give me your hand in marriage?”

“You sound like a fucking Victorian,” Tom says and Greg laughs, popping open the ring box. Tom pulls Greg down by his pajama top to kiss him, “Of course I’ll marry you.”

Greg slides the ring onto his finger. It’s a lovely silver band, which, Tom realizes, is what Greg went out to buy the other day and hid. Tom had bugged him about it but Greg had cryptically said that he’d find out soon enough.

“I expect,” Greg kisses him again, “Some good ass wedding vows.”

“Oh _you_ expect some good wedding vows?”

“Yeah like, mine are already written. I promise to do the murdering next time.”

Tom shakes his head and pulls Greg down into his lap, “It’s your turn after all. I’ve done my part. You’re serious about this? Marriage?”

“Yep,” Greg kisses his forehead, “Marriage. Murder and marriage actually. M and M.”

“Alright that’s enough,” Tom lightly pushes Greg off his lap, “That’s the breaking point.”

Greg laughs, “Tom?”

“Hmm?” Tom picks up his fork and knife, “These pancakes will get cold Gregory, come and sit and eat.”

“I just really love you dude.”

“I really love you too.”

***

**_Then_ **

The clock ticked. 

The refrigerator hummed. 

Tom weighed the knife in his hands and smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> so uh yeah!


End file.
